Of Bridges and Young Men Named Courfeyrac
by Eponine Everdeen42
Summary: Heyo! This is a fic where I totally messed up the storyline, but who cares. Courfeyrac retreats to the Seine to forget about the horrors of his life, but somehow he ends up saving another... K for attempted suicide, not graphic.


Of Bridges and Young Men Named Courfeyrac

Courfeyrac decided he would go to the Seine. It could always calm his anguish; the rushing water made him forget.

Who would he forget? Javert, the National Guard, the demon that murdered his most cherished friend.

Yes.

Courfeyrac would go to the Seine.

He stood there, on the bridge, gazing at the water. Then he heard something.

A girl's beautiful voice. It was high, melodic, haunting. He looked up and saw a young woman, about seventeen, on the bridge, singing.

_There's a grief that can't be spoken._

_There's a pain goes on and on..._

_Empty chairs at empty tables,_

_Now my friends are dead and gone._

_Here they talked of revolution,_

_Here it was they lit the flame._

_Here they sang about tomorrow,_

_And tomorrow never came._

_From the table in the corner_

_They could see a world reborn!_

_And they rose with voices ringing._

_And I can hear them now!_

Courfeyrac was stunned. The young woman was three feet away from him, at the most. He could see every feature. He had always had keen eyesight.

Her long, straight, light coloured hair waved in the breeze. Courfeyrac caught a glimpse of pained, long-lashed amber eyes, tears leaking from them. She had unbelievably fair skin, and she was wearing a loose-fitting white nightdress, made of thin, filmy stuff. A wreath of rosemary rested on her head. She was barefoot.

_The very words that they had sung,_

_Became their last communion,_

_On the lonely barricade at dawn._

_Oh, my friends, my friends forgive me!_

_That I live and you are gone._

_There's a grief that can't be spoken._

_There's a pain goes on and on._

The girl's soprano became more anguished, louder, wrought with sobs. Who was this girl? Why was she here? Courfeyrac wanted to comfort her, but he remained frozen.

_Phantom faces in the window!_

_Phantom shadows on the floor!_

_Empty chairs at empty tables._

_Where my friends will meet no more._

She neared toward the edge of the bridge, and Courfeyrac became alarmed. She wasn't going to throw herself off, was she? The idea frightened him so much he began creeping toward her.

_Oh my friends, my friends, don't ask me _

_What your sacrifice was for!_

_Empty chairs at empty tables,_

_Where my friends will sing no more..._

She remained there, sobbing. What had this maiden befallen, for her to sing so heart-wrenchingly, to think of killing herself?

Then, glancing at the churning river below, she started to step off.

It was then something snapped.

"No!" Courfeyrac roared, lunging toward her. She turned, frightened, and stumbled off the railing. He grabbed her wrist and pulled her, coughing, onto the bridge.

"You... Monsieur... Thank you," she said, visibly shaken.

"Why? Why did you do it?" Courfeyrac asked.

"My friends... gone..." That was all she said. Courfeyrac quickly shrugged off his coat and wrapped it around her thin shoulders. "Thank you."

"My name is Courfeyrac. And you, Mademoiselle?"

"Estelle. Estelle Hugo." She broke off into a coughing fit. "I-I am sorry to have worried you. I thought it would be of no consequence. I'm not worth much."

Courfeyrac shook his head. "I'm taking you to Les Amis."

"No!" Estelle shook her head violently. "Please! No!"

"Why ever not?"

"Because... because..."

"Because what?"

"Because I can't."

Courfeyrac helped her up. "You really don't want to, hm? Not even for a glimpse inside...Café Musain?"

Estelle considered it. Courfeyrac realized how beautiful her eyes were. They were bright amber, with a dark sorrow behind them, and hints of brown and gold... He ignored the spray that attacked them, leaving his hat wet.

"All right, Monsieur Courfeyrac. I shall accompany you to Les Amis. But _not _as your mistress."

"How do you know that?" he asked mischievously.

Her eyes widened, then she emitted a shaky laugh. "You win. I'm your new mistress"

"I always win."

"You cheated," she teased.

"Mademoiselle," he said, taking himself up in a mock-offended manner, "I _never _cheat when the stakes are high."

"I'm buying you a hot chocolate then?"

"I prefer wine. Just don't let Grantaire near it." They walked off, holding hands and _completely soaked._ But young love is not so easily deterred by grim soaking.

The End


End file.
